


move right through (me on my way to you)

by cipherstranger



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Canon, Drunk Blow Jobs, M/M, casual sexual activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 12:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10307537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cipherstranger/pseuds/cipherstranger
Summary: “Excuse me, but is this seat taken?”No but neither are the five whole seats between me and the next guyBut it has been a shitty day and Kaito isn’t in the mood for a fight right now, so he bites back the retort and waves at the empty chair.(Kaito goes to a sketchy bar to get drunk, gets Kamishiro Ryoga instead.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Canonverse, but Ryoga and Yuma never meet Astral or the Numbers. Also, AU where everyone is of age.  
> It doesn’t actually make it into the fic aside from implications, but the idea of incubus!Ryoga was the starting point of this
> 
> Title is from [Paralyzer - Finger Eleven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJk6gZuPKRE)
> 
>  

 

10:38 p.m. on a warm Tuesday night; crossing the junction of Central and 35 East, Kaito turns over the events of the day in his mind. Four fights - two wins, one draw, and one knife fight at the dumpster behind Heartland Mall. Orbital out of power from airlifting him out of a storm drain, and he himself with no Numbers to show for all the trouble.

Kaito had taken a shortcut through the lowlands to save time getting back to Heartland Tower, and is too tired to regret it more than halfway. This place looks sketchy as all get out, but he needs a stiff drink and all he has at home or can get at the convenience store is crap that makes him throw up more than it makes him drunk and really, _what the hell_ , so he ducks into the dingy pub at the corner of the next junction over.

_What kind of stupid pun is BARian anyway?_

It’s late enough at night that it isn’t crowded (or maybe this is the kind of place that is never crowded) and Kaito feels the eyes of everyone in this place on him, but thankfully no one stops him or asks hard questions and he can live with everything else. He heads straight for the counter, finds the seat as far away as possible from the next paying customer.

On the other side of the counter a guy with messy two-tone hair and an eyepatch slides a drink menu over to him, gives him a once-over before departing. Kaito takes the menu and leaves the pity. If he looks like shit it’s because he is, and he isn’t about to explain how or why.

The lights are low, and Kaito doesn’t bother straining to see. He picks a drink entirely at random, orders and pays so he won't have to later, and then slumps against the countertop and lets the sound of background conversation and the sports announcer on TV drown out the noise inside his head.

The music over the dancefloor in the next room over is muted but the rhythm still shakes the floor, makes Kaito’s heart jump with every beat. Fine. It’ll calm him. He stares at the screen mounted on a shelf behind the counter, next to the beer tap, flashing white blue red yellow green; news or sports, he can’t really tell.

Someone leans close and whispers into Kaito’s ear. “Excuse me, but is this seat taken?”

_No but neither are the five whole seats between me and the next guy_

But it has been a shitty day and Kaito isn’t in the mood for a fight right now, so he bites back the retort and waves at the empty chair. The guy—because it is a guy, decked out in sequined jacket and dark pants and shoes studded with fake crystal—slides onto the bar stool and makes a hand gesture to the bartender, who nods and disappears into a back room.

A regular at this bar, maybe. Just Kaito’s bad luck.

Now that Kaito has stopped running long enough for the adrenaline to fade, the bruises are starting to hurt; he shifts and re-crosses his legs for the circulation, tries to stretch out his limbs without being too obtrusive. Accidentally touches the tender part of his cheek and has to bite back a wince. Beside him, the guy nods, whether in sympathy or schadenfreude Kaito can’t tell. “Rough fight?”

“You should see the other guy.” Who will probably be in the coma ward for the rest of his life.

The bartender returns with Kaito’s drink and also something purple and fizzy in a martini glass with a paper umbrella, and the guy sips it and makes a face and then downs the glass in one go.

The bartender looks horrified. “Oi, you’re supposed to savor it, Ryoga.”

So that’s the guy’s name.

There are little transparent beads in his drink and they clink in the bottom of the glass as he sets it down.

This is ridiculous.

As ridiculous as the too-loud music playing over the dance floor with rhythm but no tune, the lamp that glares off the countertop in one specific blinding place and leaves the rest of the bar barely lit. The guy who had the entire bar’s worth of seats to choose from and taken the one next to Tenjo Kaito for no reason. The long line of the guy’s throat when he downed his drink and the way his fingers look nice wrapped around the stem of a glass, and Kaito wonders how those fingers would feel wrapped around his throat instead—

—what the hell is in this drink?

“Gin, blackberry liquor, and absinthe,” the bartender supplies helpfully. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh and Kaito wants to punch his face in.

But Kaito’s done enough fighting for one day, so he laughs shortly and lets it slide.

Ryoga turns to him. “So, mm, what do you do for a living?”

His fingers are still fidgeting with the glass, and it is distracting, but it also gives Kaito an excuse to stare anywhere that isn’t the guy’s face. “Property acquisition,” Kaito replies. It’s almost true. “You?”

“Security.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Ah,” Ryoga says, and leans in to whisper into Kaito’s ear, “—you’re checking me out, are you?”

“Fuck no.” Kaito is glad his own glass is the sturdy squat kind because he might have broken the long-stemmed kind if he’d had it in hand. But at the same time: the angle of the guy’s shoulders, the shift of collarbone beneath the popped buttons of his shirt when he speaks—

—Fine. It’s the alcohol talking.

Small talk. Ryoga has a sister, she’s in the hospital, Kaito has a brother, he’s too sickly and can’t leave the house. Ryoga gets another drink, one he seems to enjoy more, and Kaito watches him raise the glass to take a sip and thinks about those lips on his instead, has to tug at the zipper of his high collar.

What the _hell_ is in this drink? Besides gin, blackberry liquor and absinthe?

“Hm,” Ryoga says, reaches across Kaito to pick up the glass and taste the rim, tongue darting against the glass. Kaito has to force himself to look away. Ryoga swirls the contents, eyes intent on the liquid, and then he sets the glass down on the counter between them with a clink. “No idea,” he concludes thoughtfully.

Kaito wants to punch the guy in his pretty face.

Kaito has also done enough fighting for one day.

It is a very close call.

Ryoga shifts in his seat as he re-crosses his legs, and as he leans back against the bartop he neatly knocks the drink he had just set down into Kaito’s lap. “Oh, sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. The floor is carpeted, and Ryoga glances at the overturned glass and the spreading stain and then back up to Kaito. He’s looking through his lashes and it is very distracting. “Can I get you something to clean up?”

“Fuck no.” Kaito gets to his feet, is immediately hit by a wave of dizziness, and he forces himself to focus on the solid metal of the barstool he still has one hand braced against. He is going to the washroom to clean up and wash his face, and then he is heading straight home where he doesn’t have to be haunted by the sound of someone’s voice and the fall of their hair against their face—

Picks up the glass, sets it back on the counter, and manages to make his way to the men’s room and let the door fall shut behind him only to find that Ryoga has followed him.

Kaito whirls on him. “Are you desperate or what?”

“—maybe,” Ryoga says softly. The room is brightly lit, harsh on Kaito’s eyes after the dim lamps outside; the floor is filthy, the stalls empty. Ryoga is looking at Kaito properly now and in the harsh lighting Kaito sees that his eyes are different colors. Those colored contacts are really good and Kaito needs to remember to ask him where he got them. “Maybe I am and it shouldn’t be this hard.”

The air is thick with with damp and the scent of bleach, and the promise of a fight or something else.  Ryoga's eyes, like electricity. Kaito tenses in anticipation.

Then Ryoga shoves Kaito up against the nearest wall so hard Kaito has to brace himself against it. Wedges a knee between Kaito’s thighs and pushes up, and the contact sends electric shocks up Kaito’s spine. Trails his lips from Kaito’s jaw to the side of his neck, and sucks. Kaito realizes he has his hands braced against the wall from how hard Ryoga pushed him, and fuck it, he needs these gloves for hunting and these tiles are damp and who knows what the hell touched them last—

Ryoga nips at the base of Kaito’s neck just above the collarbone, and did he get his teeth filed or something because, “Ow.”

“Oh, sorry,” Ryoga murmurs into Kaito’s shoulder, not sounding sorry at all. He pulls away to fumble in his pockets—emerges with a hair tie— and with his other hand he sweeps the strands from the side of his face, holds it all at the back of his head and starts to fasten it.

In the momentary lull Kaito has time to realize where he is and what he’s doing, that he’s about to get blown by a stranger in the sketchy bar on the wrong side of town when he—and his bounty— was due back at Heartland Tower half an hour ago. Not like he actually had anything to show for it. Life _seriously sucks_ sometimes, but doesn’t everyone’s, and if Ryoga’s thing just happens to be blowing strangers in sketchy bars on the wrong side of town then maybe it works out fine for them both.

Ryoga has finished with his hair, and Kaito has a moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw before he pushes Kaito flush against the wall and then slides to his knees. Gets Kaito’s belt buckle undone on the second try and then snarls at the fastenings under them. “Pants like these why do you even bother—“

Kaito got these pants thinking about comfort and washability and not how someone else might have to suffer through fastening or unfastening them, that is why he bothers, but he is also having trouble forming words right now so he just reaches down and undoes them himself, a gasp escaping his lips as his fingers move over sensitive flesh.

Ryoga pushes aside the straining fabric of Kaito’s briefs, wraps his fingers round the base of Kaito’s shaft and takes the head into his mouth; circles downward with his tongue, first lightly, then with pressure. Ryoga’s mouth is hot and wet and feels like velvet, and Kaito throws his head back and jerks his hips up into the touch, and beneath him he feels Ryoga’s lips twist into a smile.

Gods, it has been really long since Kaito last—

Heat pools in Kaito’s lower belly as Ryoga moves, wet flesh against flesh the only sound in the quiet bright room aside from the ventilation fan. Kaito reaches down and runs his fingers through Ryoga’s hair—it is fine and soft and cold and a _goddamn mess_ — tightens his fingers in the strands and pulls. Ryoga’s eyes slip shut as he groans, his lips twist around Kaito's shaft sending electricity up Kaito's spine; his hand tightens around Kaito’s hip as if to steady himself.

Then he lets Kaito’s dick slip from his mouth, looks up at Kaito and blinks, once, slowly. Kaito’s stomach knots deep with want at the same time that the tension drains out of his body, unbearably relieving, and _are you really just gonna leave me here—_

Ryoga doesn't break eye contact, saliva still trailing obscenely from his open mouth to Kaito’s dick, and Kaito can almost hear him thinking ‘I _could_ ’, but then Ryoga dips back down and slides his mouth down the whole length of Kaito’s shaft and Kaito comes so hard his vision whites out.

— _god_ , he hears Ryoga whisper, a broken drawn-out sound. Things start having shapes again, and Kaito registers that Ryoga looks as wrecked as he himself feels, which makes no sense because _he_ hasn’t gotten off as far as Kaito can tell. Kaito is dimly aware of Ryoga’s mouth slanting over his one last time; he can taste himself, bitter, on Ryoga’s tongue. A fumble in his pockets (—fuck, his deck and the Numbers are in there—) and then cold tile against his back, hazy white light, and nothing.

 

* * *

 

_“Ryoga, you can’t just do things like that. What if someone saw—?”_

_“Sorry, Thomas.”_

_“I’m not always gonna be around to pick up your mess.”_

_“Yeah, sorry, I know, I’ll figure something—“_

 

* * *

 

Kaito opens his eyes and he’s not sure how much time has passed, if he’s lost minutes or hours or days. He’s still lying under the sinks on the filthy bathroom floor with half his last drink drying in stiff patches on his pants. So it can’t have been that long. He flips through his recent memories: the BARian, the bartender with the hair, the guy called Ryoga. His head is pounding. He fumbles through his pockets: keys, deck, wallet, communicator—

He pulls out a rectangular piece of cardboard. A playing card—ace of spades—and _No.32_ scrawled across the back face in thick black marker.

_A calling card…?_

He considers flushing it, then slides it into his deck pouch instead. Stands up and immediately staggers, has to brace himself against the wall again for a few minutes until his vision clears and his head hurts less. Runs the tap; splashes cold water on his face, swallows three mouthfuls and exits the room. The bar has emptied, the music turned to something low and soothing, stools stacked neatly upside down on the counter. 12:54 a.m., too close to closing time for comfort. He mutters sorry to the bartender cleaning the counter, doesn't think the guy hears.

He heads outside; the night air is cooler, now that it is later and there are fewer cars on the road. Too late to report in for the day now. He thinks, _try again tomorrow_ , and heads for home instead.


End file.
